Chapter 4
Malcolm had been a fighter all his life. Had to be, with four brawny brothers and a large father always trying to catch him and pound him with their fists. He managed to avoid falling, but he staggered, fighting to keep upright.
He was regaining his balance, his hand automatically moving for the other man’s throat, when he found himself facing a drawn dagger.
“Who the devil are you?” Jeremy demanded. “Have the Jacobites marched on us already?”
Mal raised his hands. “Not a Jacobite, lad. Not me.” Charles Edward Stuart could remain pontificating to his followers in the western Highlands forever, as far as Malcolm cared. “And if they do march, are you going to defend your entire house with a little stabber like that?”
For answer, Jeremy came at him. Mal caught his arm, bending it behind the young man’s back and twisting the knife from his hand.
Jeremy was good, Mal had to admit. It was a struggle to hold him, and at last Mal had to release the twisting devil. Malcolm had the knife now, and brought it up between them.
Jeremy breathed hard, a dangerous light in his eyes. He had black hair pulled into a loose queue, a strong body filling out a finely tailored coat and breeches, blue eyes, and a fiery look. He might be a youngest son, but Mal had the feeling that if he were ever allowed any power . . . watch out.
“Answer me,” Jeremy said in a hard voice. “Who are you?”
“Lord Mal Mackenzie.” Mal dipped his free hand into his pocket and pulled out the letter. “Sent to deliver your post.”
Jeremy eyed it suspiciously. “What is that?”
“A love letter, ye ignorant Sassenach.” Mal waved the folded paper in front of Jeremy’s face. “From your paramour, young Audrey.”
“What?” Jeremy snatched the letter. “What are you doing with it?”
“Sent here by Lady Mary herself. Commanded in the name of love.”
Jeremy didn’t soften, not believing a word of it. He jerked open the letter and read the first few lines before he looked up again. “Yes, all right.”
Mal kept his grip on the knife but lowered his hand to his side. “I read the whole of it. She says some fine things about you.”
Jeremy went scarlet. “You read it?”
“By accident. She’s a skilled one with a pen, is Lady Audrey. Are ye very much in love with her?”
Jeremy kept his angry look in place a moment longer, then he groaned and dropped all pretense. “Good God, man. I adore her. But her father is determined to marry her to an old man to curry favor. The earl’s daughters are nothing but bargaining pieces to him. Cattle for breeding.”
“As it is with so many Englishmen.”
Jeremy’s glitter of anger returned. “My father is different. Well, slightly different—he cares bugger-all about what woman I marry as long as I don’t disgrace the family. Although one with bags full of money wouldn’t come amiss.”
“Aye, me father’s much the same. Leave off with your whores, Malcolm, and find a woman who’ll bear me strong grandsons.” Mal shrugged. “Only so he’ll have more lads t’ help with the work.”
Jeremy studied Malcolm with more interest. “Are you such a man for the ladies?”
“Oh, aye. I’m all the time swayed by the flash of an ankle, the soft flesh of a shoulder. One wink of an eye, and I’m off.” Although now that Mal had seen Mary, those days were at an end. “Me da says I’ve got unbalanced humors, which I inherited from me mum’s side, he claims, wild men all. Me da, on the other hand, is dour. When men speak of dour Scotsmen, they mean my father, Daniel William Mackenzie, Duke of Kilmorgan. The dourest of them all.”
Jeremy’s eyes widened. “Good Lord, you’re that Mackenzie? His son, I mean.”
Malcolm bowed. “I have that misfortune.”
“He’s a slippery fish, so they say. Begging your pardon. My father and the Earl of Wilfort are watching him closely, you ought to know. No offense?”
The young man so ready to stab Malcolm a few moments ago was now apologizing for telling the truth about Malcolm’s own father. Strange the effect that women and love had on crazed fighting men.
“Me da is slippery and can be a nasty bugger. You’re not offending me there. And he’s aware of Englishmen watching him—he’s watching back. If you want to know what the devil he’s up to, do not ask me. I don’t know. I pay no attention. I sleep easier that way.”
Jeremy sighed, looking miserable again. “Well, none of it matters. I love Audrey, she loves me, and her father has forbidden us to see each other. Here we are, lovers in a farce, unable to break free.”
“You might just,” Mal said.
“Hmm?” Jeremy shot him a puzzled look. “Why? What do you mean?”
Mal paused a dramatic moment before he spoke . . . which gave him time to think of what to say.
Mal had discovered how to win Mary. All he had to do was find a way for Jeremy and Audrey to marry, to ensure it happened without impediment, and to keep their families from tearing them apart. Once he did all this, Mary would smile upon him in gratitude. Mal had friends and connections to get Jeremy and Audrey to France, where the lovebirds could remain in safety while their families became used to the situation. Mary would kiss him for it.
Jeremy was a bright lad, of good family, not a charlatan from the gutter. Once Audrey and he were bound in marriage, and no man could put them asunder, the families would likely come around to forgiving them.
Even if Lord Wilfort never forgave them, Mary would be happy, and that was all that mattered to Mal.
Mary would be much more inclined to throw off the chains of obligation and run away with Malcolm if he did her this favor. They’d go to France, marry, and enjoy themselves. And when Mal returned to Kilmorgan with the beautiful Mary and several strong and squalling bairns, the Duke of Dourness would come ’round and at least be civil. What could go wrong?
Mal set Jeremy’s dagger on the table with a click. “Are ye willing to be guided by me? And by Mary, of course.”
“You can help us?” Jeremy regarded Mal with evident doubt. “How?”
“Well, ye have to be willing to be brave. And to keep your mouth shut. How much money do you have?”
Jeremy went from hopeful to morose so quickly it was comical. “There’s the rub. Not much. I’d have absconded with the girl months ago if I’d had the blunt.”
“And that’s the difference between Englishmen and Highlanders. We don’t beggar our sons—well, all right, some do. But my father never did. Me mum left us all a wagonload of money, and I’ve made me own. Ye marry your lass, settle down to a profession, and pay me back when ye have a mind to.”
“A profession.” Jeremy gave Malcolm a glum look. “I haven’t trained for much. I might tutor other gentlemen’s sons, but I don’t have the good conscience for the clergy, or the money for the army.”
Malcolm hid his impatience. He was already liking Jeremy for his restless energy and determination, but the lad was giving up on life before he’d even started it.
“I have a going concern ye can be a part of. Help me sell my fine whisky to Englishmen such as yourself, and you’ll be swimming in riches in no time. You’ll keep young Audrey in satin slippers and lacy caps for the rest of her life.”
Jeremy looked bewildered. “Why would you promise to do so much for me? You’ve only just met me. Is this some sort of Scottish trick?”
“Only a trick to get Mary Lennox to smile at me.”
“Oh.” Jeremy blinked. “Mary, eh?”
“Yes, Mary, the most beautiful creature who graces the earth,” Malcolm said forcibly.
Jeremy looked doubtful again. “Mary? She’s all right. A grand girl to help us. You say you’re in love with her?”
“As much as you are with your Audrey.”
“Ah.” Jeremy’s face cleared. “Now I understand. Then we are a hopeless pair of smitten gentlemen.” He clapped Malcolm on the shoulder. “How about we leave this tower of despair and go get brutally drunk?”
Malcolm returned his grin, and agreed. But he made sure Jeremy left his dagger behind as they went down the back stairs, as silent as smoke, and out into the night.
Edinburgh was a city of contrasts. It was a place of learning, of thinkers, poets, and scientists, of ancient streets and spires, elegant and strong. It was also a city of narrow rookeries, jammed with buildings falling into one another, and people doing much the same.
The dark face of Edinburgh, in the old city, was where Mal and Jeremy headed now. It was late, gloomy, and cold, and the only people who noticed the tall Scotsman and equally tall Englishman at his side were those who scuttled off into warmth and kept out of their way.
The tavern Mal made for was squashed between two other shops, its upper stories sagging downward. Mal ducked under the door’s solid lintel ahead of Jeremy, assessing the lay of the land.
Jeremy couldn’t be mistaken for anything but upper-class English. In this place, it would generally not be a problem, but Mal knew there were a few patrons here so hotly Jacobite they’d find any excuse to cut anyone who didn’t speak broad Scots. Mal advised Jeremy to stay near, keep his mouth closed, and smile a lot.
Mal’s brother Alec lifted his tankard and sang out from the corner. Most of the clientele knew the Mackenzie brothers, and slurred greetings met Mal as he crossed the room.
“Didn’t take ye long,” Mal said, dropping onto the bench beside his brother.
Alec shrugged, one large, raw-boned hand on his tankard. “Ye went missing, and I soon had enough of posturing English shite.” He threw a glance at Jeremy. “Ah, no offense, Drake.”
“None taken,” Jeremy answered, keeping his voice quiet as Mal had advised. “My father postures with the best of them. I’m not much for politics.”
“The world is politics these days, lad,” Alec said. “Who you talk to, where you drink, what you drink, the clothes you wear—all say something.”
He looked Jeremy up and down, as though trying to interpret what a black frock coat with silver buttons and a lawn shirt meant.
Means he’s young, Mal wanted to say. And in love, and doesn’t care about the machinations of the world. Jeremy had already won a great deal of Mal’s sympathy.
Jeremy glanced pointedly at Alec’s tankard. “What does drinking ale say about you?”
Alec gave him a stony Scots look, worthy of their hard-faced father. No one could give a more brutal stare than the Duke of Kilmorgan, except for his sons.
In the next instant, Alec burst into raucous laughter. He thumped the table with his heavy hand, his head going back until he bumped the stone wall. “Your expression, lad. Too damn serious. Drink—if you’re a friend of Mal’s, you’re a friend of mine.”
Mal laughed out loud as well—Alec was as changeable as the wind, and Mal found it best to laugh and roll his eyes instead of taking him seriously.
A woman with thick blond hair trickling from a cap set down tankards in front of Mal and Jeremy. She looked into Jeremy’s face then sent a glance at Mal and Alec. Mal nodded at her, vouching for him. The barmaid then beamed Mal a smile, sending the message that she served more than ale.
Mal had taken her offer a time or two, and those of her comelier friends upstairs, but that had been before he’d fallen in love. The next lady he’d be with would be Mary, and he’d not want another woman after her.
“Out with it,” Alec said to Mal when the barmaid had retreated. “Did ye make your conquest?”
Jeremy looked interested. “Conquest?”
“Lady Mary,” Mal told him.
“Oh yes. Mary.” The young man could not seem to understand what a goddess Mary was. “She is betrothed, you know.”
“Aye. But one obstacle at a time, lad.” Mal drew his handkerchief from his pocket and opened it enough to show Alec the single lock of Mary’s red-touched blond hair. Just the sight of it made Mal’s body squeeze, and he quickly tucked the lock out of sight.
Alec had ceased laughing, and now watched Mal from his tawny eyes. Alec’s hair and that of his twin, Angus, were the darkest of the brothers, containing only a hint of red. Their oldest brother, Duncan—his name was Daniel Duncannon Mackenzie, but everyone called him Duncan to distinguish him from their father—had hair of flame red. Duncan took the most after their mother—in looks, not temperament. Allison Mackenzie had been lively and laughing, a contrast to her stony husband, before she’d passed, scarred by smallpox.
Duncan took life far too seriously and could rage and storm even better than their father. Duncan was a staunch Jacobite and, given the chance, would singlehandedly dispatch King Geordie from the throne and throw James onto it. Never mind he’d kill himself in the doing of it. To Duncan, the sacrifice would be worth it.
God save us from fanatics. The Mackenzie men could grow obsessed at the drop of a hanky, but Duncan had made an art of it.
Alec was watching Mal now as though thinking Mal as mad as Duncan. Mal gazed stubbornly back at him.
When Alec wanted a woman, he went through fire to get her, didn’t matter whether she was married and guarded by a burly husband and five equally burly brothers. Alec had barely escaped with his life during that incident, and only because Mal and Will had hauled him away in the dead of night.
Alec hadn’t let obstacles stop him the last time he’d wanted a woman either. The consequences of that were yet to be felt.
“Here’s to beautiful women,” Mal said, lifting his tankard.
“Aye,” Alec said fervently. “May they warm our beds for many years to come.”
“Aye,” Jeremy echoed, sounding wistful.
“And here’s to getting them into those beds.” Mal lifted his tankard again. “You and me, Master Jeremy, have our work cut out for us.”
“That we do,” Jeremy said. He tried to sound Scots and failed miserably. Mal and Alec collapsed into laughter, and Jeremy joined them after a moment. Then they proceeded to become heartily drunk.
“My lords.” The barmaid was before them again. Some time had passed—Mal had no idea how much, but a few hours at least.
Jeremy was slumped against the wall, snoring softly. Alec was staring at the empty tankard in his hands, singing to it under his breath. He had somewhere gotten his hands on a charcoal stick, and he’d drawn pictures all over the table with it, as he liked to do. Alec was skilled at drawing, but the tavern keepers weren’t always happy with him.
“Aye?” Mal looked up at the woman, who wore a harassed expression.
“It’s your brother, my lords,” she said, urgent. “I just heard. He’s sure to be arrested. You must go quickly.”